


sesame syrup (cigarettes after sex)

by cielchat



Series: not your mother's songfics [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bartender!Osamu, M/M, Songfic, but not your mother's songfic, i heard you wanted, no plot...yet, well I am here to supply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielchat/pseuds/cielchat
Summary: If you asked high school Sunarin to describe his ideal partner, it would not have been a six foot bartender that knew how to make onigiri and never skipped a meal or leg day. Luckily early twenties Sunarin knows better. Much better.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: not your mother's songfics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037031
Comments: 3
Kudos: 84
Collections: Bartender Osamu, SunaOsa





	sesame syrup (cigarettes after sex)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiritscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/gifts).



> oi don't go home with strangers. this is nOT a guide.
> 
> Anyways I heard someone say bartender osamu and so my brain said chubby rights bartender osamu.

“So,” says the bartender, and Suna yo-yos his head back to the present. “What can I get ya?”

His elbows are on the countertop, and Suna’s not entirely sure that’s acceptable food service behavior but he gets a little distracted by the width of those forearms and suddenly can’t find it in himself to mind. He flits his eyes up past the towel draped over a broad shoulder and is met with grey half lidded eyes. 

“Um-“ Suna honestly knows jack shit about drinks. “Got a house special?”

“Yeah,” the bartender says. “It’s called shot after shot of cheap vodka until you don’t have any brain cells left.”

It did seem like that kind of place, Suna had noted when he walked in, and he should have guessed by the lack of a liquid chalk menu board. “Sounds terrible,” he says honestly.

“Lucky for you,” the bartender continues, “I know more than jus’ how to pour a shot. Sweet or sour?”

“Uh. Sweet.” Suna watches the bartender smile slowly and turn away, eyes catching Suna’s through his eyelashes.

It’s a fantastic view, Suna thinks, and even though the mirror behind the bar is dirty and the lights are dim and the rattling handful of bottles along the back counter are more than half empty and catching light in a cheap way rather than artistic, there’s a set of broad shoulders and a tight black shirt covering them. The towel is whipped off and laid flat over the back counter, and Suna doesn’t look away from the nape of a smooth neck where short cropped hair fades in quickly until it meets dark grey waves.  
The bartender reaches for one of the—literal top shelf—bottles and Suna memorizes the flex of muscle connected to that neck, the swell of bicep curving out from under the black shirtsleeve. His eyes drift down to the bartender’s ass—he was allowed to look, right? Movement attracts the human eye anyways—Suna’s sure those weren’t designed to be skinny jeans. What did this man do to fill out those Levi’s so well? 

The bartender turns around and Suna gets to see the side profile of that ass before he loses sight of those beautiful legs entirely. Ah, probably for the better. Suna should be outgrowing the stage of life where he gets hard in public. 

“Order up,” the bartender says, pushing a golden drink towards him and giving it an extra stir before letting his hands fall back to the counter.

“What’s in it?” 

A burst of a familiar savory flavor covers his tongue as Suna swallows the first sip.

“Nikka whisky, sesame oil, simple syrup, and pineapple juice,” the bartender tells him. “Don’t tell anyone I put simple syrup in Nikka whisky, but I thought you might like it better this way.”

“You were right,” Suna says, and takes another swallow. He likes it a lot. “Does the drink have a name, so I know how to ask for it again?”

“Nope,” the bartender says with a pop of his lips. “Not a drink I’ve ever had anywhere else, at least.”

“Do you have a name?” Suna asks. “You know, so I know how to get this drink again?”

The bartender grins slowly at him. God, it’s fucking hot. Suna hides his face in the rim of the glass.

“’Samu,” the bartender answers. “I’m here weekend nights.”

“Sounds foreign,” remarks Suna, pulling out his phone. He opens ‘new contact’ and hands it to Samu. “Can you spell it out here?”

The grin doesn’t leave Samu’s face, and when he hands back the phone there’s a number typed below Miya Osamu (Samu). “I seem to have other customers,” he says, and taps Suna’s drink. “Call me over if you need another one of these.”

“Very annoying.” Suna eyes the other customers, old men waving Samu down with snaps of the fingers. It does give him a chance to look at those gorgeous legs again, and to watch Samu’s arms move as he pours drink after drink—Samu catches him watching and winks at him, Suna quirks his eyebrow in return and slowly puts his chin in his hand.

It takes him another five minutes of sipping the whisky to admit to himself that he doesn’t want to leave the bar without taking the bartender with him tonight. It’s not that Suna’s a stranger to—not that Suna’s ever had to leave a bar or club alone if he didn’t want to before; his smoky lined green eyes and soft dark hair and natural pout have always gotten him whoever he’s wanted. He’s just never made the mistake of setting his sights on an employee. Who can’t just up and leave, or fuck him senseless in the bathroom. Suna’s eyes flutter shut. He’s really got to work on his self-control, it’s bad enough knowing he’d be waiting all night just to get his hands on the man without teasing himself by fantasizing about it ahead of time.

His patience snaps when he watches Samu tug at his shirt to untuck it from his jeans, and flutter the hem of it as if he were overheating in the mess of the bar. Suna certainly is. The raised hem of the shirt boasts a glimpse of stomach, smooth and tanned skin with the swell of his hips visible. The line of his boxers—black too, of course—doesn’t completely conceal the etchings of a tattoo.  
He drains the drink quickly, and Samu notices and comes over, leaving a group of businessmen a little baffled as they come up for air from their sake to see no one around. 

“Want another one?” He’s already taken away Suna’s glass. 

“That depends. How much longer would I need to wait if I were to stick around till your shift ended?”

Samu looks at his watch with a flourish, just for show. “You have a total of seven minutes of self-imposed boredom on your plate in that case.”

Nine-thirty, Suna’s mind supplies. “I’ll close my tab now, then.”

“Don’t bother,” Samu says. “I’m not gonna charge ya for my experimental sesame oil drink.”

“I saw you take that whisky down from the top shelf,” Suna points out. “That’s not gotta be cheap.”

Samu’s hand curls over Suna’s one holding his credit card, closing it and pushing it away. He let it happen, less out of decorum and more out of being fully distracted by just how large and warm and well sculpted those hands were. 

“Five minutes,” Samu says, and then disappears to the other side of the bar again. Suna sighs and presses his thighs together. It would be a miracle, he decided, if they managed to get to either of their apartments, because if Miya Osamu granted him nothing more than the luxury of getting fucked against the wall of the back exit he’s sure he would take it.

As it turns out, despite Suna’s terribly desperate thoughts, Samu is a complete gentleman and as soon as a pierced blond showed up to take his place he appears at Suna’s side with a jacket over one arm and the other offered to Suna.

“Do I get a name for you?”

“Suna Rintarou,” he answers as Samu opens the door for him, and locks in a sigh when one of those large hands rests on the small of his back.

“Well then, Sunarin,” Samu says easily, jacket still off even in the night air, “where might we be going now?”

“Ideally to a bed.” He’s never been one for decorum, Suna admits, but he also can’t look away from Osamu’s mouth right now so it would be dishonest to pretend any motives to the contrary. 

“Hmm,” Osamu hums, and then before he knows it Suna’s being pushed up against the building wall and Samu’s tongue is in his mouth and Suna forgets that he’s not supposed to moan that loudly in public and then Samu’s pulling away and grinning at him, again. “My place is right around the corner. I think that’ll do for now.”

It takes the door shutting for Osamu to release his grip on Suna’s wrist, where Suna had been doing his damn best to sneak his hand under Osamu’s shirt and get a head start on undressing. Finally alone, Osamu pulls the tee over his head and Suna stares unabashedly at his chest and stomach, the dips displaying muscle across his biceps and pec and the soft curve of his belly dipping into some goddamn hinting of abs. He’s then distracted—easily—by Samu popping the button of his jeans and dragging down the zipper.

With the pants off, Suna has the pleasure of learning that Osamu’s hip tattoo is actually a thigh tattoo and that it blooms from the inside of his leg, tendrils stretching up over his hipbones and down to his knee.  
“I’m just gonna-“ Suna breathes, and the gives up on talking, pushing Samu’s fully nude form down on the couch before falling to his knees before him.  
“What do ya want,” Osamu asks him, and with his usual lack of propriety Suna ignores him completely in favor of putting his mouth on inked skin. “Oh,” Osamu chuckles. “Okay then.”

Suna’s a six-ways-to-Sunday fucker, not a lover, but this might be the closest he’s ever gotten as he laves his tongue over the lines on the inside of Osamu’s thigh. It’s some sort of plant (he suspects the florets and stalks of rice) but the moment he got those legs on his shoulders Suna’s eyes fluttered shut and all his brainpower went to committing the feeling of that skin against his mouth to memory. He feels the muscles in those thighs tense and tighten fitfully and he runs his hands up further, stroking Osamu’s belly and ribs and pointedly ignoring his cock.

“I make you a free drink and you repay me by indulging your tattoo kink,” Osamu rasps, sounding a touch impatient.

“It’s called foreplay.” Suna makes sure Osamu can feel the words as well as he can hear them, and punctuates the sentence with a bite. “Besides,” and he bids goodbye to the tattoo for now in favor of looking up at Osamu from between his legs in the way he knows his partners like, “you haven’t asked me for anything yet.”

Before Samu says anything in reply, Suna closes his mouth around just the head of his cock and waits there, staring up at him. A challenge. They’re both horrible little twenty-something year olds in the dregs of their careers, but Suna thinks that Osamu looks every inch a king above him, with his thick thighs spread dominatingly and his arms flung over the back of the couch, open and gazing down at Suna on his knees before him with amusement. He reaches down and threads a hand through Suna’s hair, and pulls him forward—gently, but still so demanding that lust spikes through Suna and makes him a little dizzy. He moans around Osamu’s cock and gets to work, relaxing against the hand in his hair. 

Suna’s good at this, he knows. But apparently it’s not enough to make Osamu lose control, no matter how good Suna is at dragging his tongue in all the right places. Before he really gets to watch Osamu come apart above him, he’s pulling Suna off and shoving a foot against his chest hard enough to make Suna land back on his ass, staring up at Osamu. He’d be more offended if it wasn’t doing it so well for him.

“Clothes off,” Samu says to him, and Suna rushes to comply. The moment he finally gets his jeans over his ankles, shirt long gone, Samu’s standing, bending over, and picking him up like he’s nothing and tossing him over his broad shoulder. Suna squeaks. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed about it, especially as they round the corner and Osamu tosses him down on a bed.

Osamu takes something from the nightstand drawer before settling down on the bed next to Suna and pulling him into his lap—Suna didn’t know he had a thing for having his legs forcefully spread apart by the breadth of someone else’s thighs, but he knows now—and Osamu’s kissing him again, and the softness of his lips almost distracts him from the sound of a bottle opening and two very large and slick fingers rubbing between his legs. 

“Should I pay you back?” Osamu asks him, and Suna has no idea what he’s talking about. “For being a tease?”

“No,” Suna pants. “No you should not.” He tries to shift and push himself down on Osamu’s hand, but he’s caught at the hips by the other one and Osamu immobilizes him by pressing him to his broad chest as he goes back to melting Suna’s mind with his mouth.

It doesn’t take much, by the time Osamu’s got a finger in him Suna’s completely forgotten how to be a cool and collected person. He’s being whiny, he knows, and he would feel a little more self-conscious about it if he weren’t in the process of receiving more than a handful of hickeys across his throat. Samu pushes a second finger in and god they’re a lot wider than his own.  
“I’m good,” he fusses. “Fuck me already.”

“Sunarin,” Osamu laughs, “no the fuck you’re not.” He grinds up against Suna’s thighs as if to remind him how big exactly he was, and Suna chokes back a moan. It doesn’t work, really, and Osamu finds the bundle of nerves inside him and pets them with those two fingers and Suna slumps against him, legs shaking too hard to stay up on his own anymore. It’s when the third finger presses in that his jaw drops and the sound he makes is loud and uninhibited, and he can feel that fucker Samu laughing in self satisfaction as he truly starts rolling his wrist to fuck into Suna.

His hips are twitching so hard, ineffective in their attempts to meet Osamu’s thrusts, and when Osamu withdraws from him completely to flip them over and push Suna face first into the sheets, he’s mindlessly caught between trying to thrust down in search of friction and bucking his hips up in a plea for Osamu to come back. 

“Wait.” Osamu growls and a hand pushes against the small of his back to hold him still. “Hands on the headboard, Sunarin.”

“Hurry up,” Suna tries to snap as he obeys, but he’s afraid it comes out as more of a plea. 

“You want it to hurt?” Osamu grabs him and pulls him up on his knees, face still buried in the mattress. “You want to be unable to walk tomorrow?”

“Is that a question? If I can walk tomorrow morning you better fuck me again and again until I can’t, ‘Samu,” Suna throws back. He’s a little impressed with himself for managing such a long sentence. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunarin,” Osamu breathes, and in the next second he thrusts in, impaling Suna in one smooth motion. Suna wants to say good job, finally. Instead what comes out is a cry of surprise. 

“You’re so-“ Suna pants, struggling to find the words as his hips squirm uncontrollably, “-so big.” 

“You’re welcome,” Osamu replies, and the sheer force he fucks him with has Suna glad that he’s holding onto the headboard after all. He lets his mouth fall open and with each thrust he can’t help but to let his voice color his panting; Osamu briefly lets go of his hip with one hand and grabs his hair to turn his head to the side. 

“I want to hear you,” he snarls and Suna almost comes right there. “Say my name.”

“Samu,” Suna whines compliantly. “Samu please, I need you.”

“You have me,” Osamu says, and with a tug on his locks Suna is coming into the sheets under him with a final call of Osamu’s name. He goes lax, fingers falling off the headboard, but the feeling of Samu still driving into him feels almost as good as the orgasm until it turns sharp, and he whines in relief when Samu’s hips stutter and still and he slowly collapses next to Suna.

Suna’s too exhausted to turn around and look at Osamu, but his ragged breathing and heat up against Suna’s back are just as good as any eye candy he could get at the moment, so Suna closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Osamu still inside of him while they catch their breath.

“I’ll have to remember how to make that drink if this is what I get out of it,” Osamu says eventually. Suna huffs a laugh, then reaches back until he finds Osamu’s arm and lifts it until he can read the watch. 

“It’s only ten fifteen. I think you can get a couple more rounds in payment before my favor runs out.” He drops the arm and it lands over his waist—completely uncalculated of course—and Osamu uses it to pull him closer to his chest. His hand travels up until he’s thumbing at Suna’s lower lip. 

“Trust me, the next round isn’t gonna be over so fast,” he rumbles into Suna’s ear.


End file.
